


The Consort

by fits_in_frames



Series: Poses [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-12
Updated: 2007-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It occurs to you, late one sleepless night, that if you were both in Slytherin house, you'd be like royalty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Consort

**Author's Note:**

> _together, we'll wreak havoc_  
>  _you and me_  
>  {rufus wainwright // the consort}  
> 

It occurs to you, late one sleepless night, that if you were both in Slytherin house, you'd be like royalty. It's not that you want to be in Slytherin: you've seen the way his cousins hang all over their boyfriends and lift their skirts to flaunt the green-and-silver scarves they wear around their legs like garters, and you've heard him talk to himself when Regulus runs off with Snivellus at every opportunity ( _why don't you go snog that giant-nosed git behind the Whomping Willow, I hope he gives you sphyllis_ ). But the thought is still vaguely comforting, in the same way that hiding in a corner of the dormitory under your cloak, completely unseen, and crying yourself to sleep, used to be. But you were a child then, and only children do stupid things like that.

He's standing over your bed, watching you. You didn't hear him come in, but you know he's been out behind the castle, snogging Remus and smoking cigarettes for an hour. You pretend to be asleep, but he knows. Without taking his eyes off you (you can _feel_ them, burning holes in your skin), he runs his finger on your arm, and you can't help but shiver. He throws back the covers and invites himself in. You turn to him.

"Didn't think you were coming."

"Shh," he says, pressing his palm over your mouth. He smells strongly of wine and faintly of cloves. "Shh."

He unties the drawstring on your pajama bottoms with his other hand. _He is all frail skin and high cheekbones and silver teaspoons,_ you think. You have none of these things, and neither does he, not really, not anymore. Not since--

"Oh," you gasp, without realizing it. He rests his hand against your belly for a moment, then returns it to its warm place between skin and flannel.

He says that he only snogs Remus because Remus wants him to. He says that's all they do, but you've seen the bits of grass in Remus' hair when they come in from outside, and you've seen their swollen lips and their legs like jelly when they come out of the boys' bathroom by the Transfiguration classroom, and you just _know_.

You suddenly realize there is bunched-up cloth around your knees and you are very hard between your legs. For a split second, you think, _I am a poof_ , but the feeling passes when you remember that you want to kiss Evans like Remus was kissing her when you caught them together in the Prefect's bath last year. A lot has changed since then, and sometimes you hate Remus for being a nasty, stinking homosexual and forcing Evans to be so very, very alone, but at times like these, you can't think straight enough to remember that.

"Oh," you say again, louder this time, and longer. It's involuntary, but Sirius puts his lips on yours anyway, just to shut you up. His fingers (delicate and pale and graceful) drag, and he arches his back, slightly, and you see his eyes, wild in the dim light. _If it weren't for me,_ they flash, _you'd still be that pathetic nothing that cried himself to sleep every night_.

He flips you over and drops his wand with a soft wooden _thud_ on the bed and then one finger, two fingers, sharp and cool and calm, enter you. Your hips hitch, but he presses you into the mattress, and then he is inside you.

Your parents called it "making love" when you first asked about it, but you feel nothing of that euphemism in this. This is _fucking_. He is _fucking_ you.

He leans into your ear as he bucks into you, and moans as if to say, _I made you what you are_. There is nothing about him that resembles your best friend. This is not someone who you've done everything ( _classes, Quidditch, pranks_ ) with since you were eleven. This is someone who gives orders and demands respect and--

"Oh," you moan into the pillow as he comes into you and you come all over yourself and he flops down next to you and the thick odor of wine overpowers you again. You turn to lie on your back and stare at the ceiling of your bed, blankly.

"Sirius," you say impulsively, suddenly looking at him, "if we were Slytherins, what would we be?"

He props up his head with his arm and trails a finger up and down your chest. He grins, haphazardly, lips all out of place and teeth too bright in the darkness of the early morning hour. "We would be assholes, is what."

The words dance on the tip of your tongue, and you press yourself into the mattress harder, as if that would somehow will them out faster. "I mean, would we be, uh--is there such a thing as a wizard prince?"

He laughs, harshly. "Don't be stupid, James. Just because we're wizards doesn't mean we live in a fairytale." He puts his lips right next to your ear, loose and sloppy. "But you're my queen, I think." He grabs his wand, slides out of the bed, and stumbles into his own. He is snoring a moment later.

You wish you could forget it all, the way he will in the morning. You can't, because of the mess in your bed that some poor house elf with have to clean up, because of the smell of smoke on your clothes, because of the impression of his fingertips on your arms, because of his voice in your head, _I made you what you are_. Part of you wants desperately to forget, because you want to wrap your legs around Evans' waist, because you don't want Remus to know, because you don't want to think of that wild-eyed creature when you are putting Giggling potion in all the teachers' pumpkin juice.

But another part of you, a small part, sings a song you once heard as a child ( _when I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen_ ). You get out of bed, pull your cloak from your trunk, slip outside and lie down among the wine bottles and cigarette butts. A drop of something runs off your nose, and then everything fades into darkness.


End file.
